


brobeck

by wondercurls1917



Series: Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: (characters based off them), Androids, Anxiety, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Dehumanization, Dehydration, Desert Customs, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotionally Repressed, Fun Ghoul is on the autism spectrum, Head Injury, Jet Star Has PTSD, Kobra has ADHD, M/M, Muteness, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Nonbinary Party Poison, Not RPF, Other, Past Rape/Non-con, Pornodroids - Freeform, Robot/Human Relationships, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Rings, Weddings, Zone Customs, dallon weekes?, lots of emotions in general, never heard of them, no really, ryan seaman?, sorry for this, technically, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-11 10:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19108009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wondercurls1917/pseuds/wondercurls1917
Summary: (noun): to be an anonymous person or an unknown figure that nobody really knows about.prompt: jet star stumbles across a droid out in the zonesOR: the long one where Jet meets a runaway half-droid and later meets him again under dangerous but... happier circumstances.





	1. new beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> TW: body horror, mentions of past rape and past body horror, blood, self-loathing.

prompt: jet star stumbles across a droid out in the zones

 

It’d been a long while since Jet had any semblance of a mission from Dr. D. He’d gone off on his own now, more often than not using the trans am and not giving a single shit. He thought he’d like a motorcycle one day, but today is not that day.

There was something on the side of the road up ahead. Jet Star could do a lot of things, but ignoring someone in need was not one of them. He sighed to himself but pulled over anyway.

The first thing Jet noticed when he stepped out was that this person was alone. The second thing was that the person was at least semi-robotic and seemed to be injured.

They were sitting ass-down in the sand, dark brown hair damp with sweat and sticking up all over the place. They held onto their leg, pressing against a large portion of it using both hands. They wore the black ensemble of a sexual servant droid.

“You okay?” Jet called, squinting across the few barren feet of desert between them.

The person looked up, trying to make out the shadow blocking the sun. “I’m fine, you can carry on with your day.”

Jet Star closed the gap, kneeling before them. “I’m Jet Star,” he introduced. “I use male pronouns. I’m here to help. Now, don’t take offense because that’s not what I’m trying to do, but you look at least partly droid and injured.”

They scoffed. “What, you’re a mechanic?”

Jet shrugged. “Tried and true, yes. The best one you can get outside of Bat City.”

There was a pause. Then, “I’m android model D-A-Eleven,” they said. “He/him or they/them. I actually _could_ use some help, if you wouldn’t mind at all.”

Jet Star frowned but turned to go get tools from the trunk of the trans am. His tools were expensive, but they were meant to fix droids, so they had to be expensive. Cherri Cola had always resented that, but Jet and Cherri were two different people. Jet cautiously sat in the sand beside DA11, sifting through his tools. DA11 made a curious sound—something like a groan and a hiss—at the cold clinking of metal.

“Do you have any, uh…” DA11 paused, trying to look for the word as though he hadn’t used it in a while. “I need medical supplies. For this leg, at least.”

Jet didn’t want to sit down and pick _that_ apart—he’d had his fair share of bodily issues—so he set aside his toolbox and went to the backseat of the trans am instead so he could grab his first aid kit. DA11 shifted, eyes floating up to Jet’s face and down to his hands and up again. He seemed… _anxious,_ a distinctly human emotion. This likely meant he _was_ a human-turned-droid and that his control center—what Better Living called a chip implanted into the skulls of their organic droids—had been severely damaged. Jet Star mentally added a brain check to his list of things to check up on.

“Let me see your leg,” he said softly.

DA11 stared for a second, but uncovered his injury with a wince and a hiss. It was bleeding actual human blood, which confirmed further Jet’s suspicions. DA11’s black pants were torn wide open. There was a small but deep gash across the front of his leg, diagonally from his knee.

“Okay,” Jet said. He was unphased by the blood; had been for a long time. It’s what made him such a good medic. “I’m going to cut the leg of your pants from over your knee so I can get better access to your wound.”

DA11 looked apprehensive but nodded anyway. Jet grabbed his pair of shears and slowly, ever-so-gently, cut the fabric above DA11’s knee away. He gingerly pulled it away from the wound as DA11 yowled. Ah. So his sensory input was also screwed over.

DA11 heaved for air. “Please tell me it gets better.”

Jet gave a tentative smile and ducked back into his first aid kit, pulling out eucalyptus oil and shaking it. “This’ll make you feel a bit tingly, but it’ll sting at first. I’ve been there, so I know it doesn’t hurt too much at all, okay?”

DA11 nodded. His clear blue eyes had gone bright with unshed tears. He clearly didn’t know how to properly handle pain; if he had, once, it was gone under years of programming. Jet briefly wondered when and why this guy had went from human to droid. Better Living always had terrible reasons for doing this sort of thing, had almost gotten to do it to him.

He sanitized the wound with an alcohol wipe and applied the eucalyptus oil. DA11 choked on a groan, doubling over with his eyes squinted shut. The muscles in his legs twitched and jerked but his other leg, Jet noted, stayed perfectly still. He _had_ earlier implied his other leg was robotic.

“I’m going to sew up the wound,” Jet said. “Do you wanna talk to distract yourself from it?”

It took a moment to refocus, but DA11 said, “Yes, yes. Please.”

Jet picked out a sterilized curved needle. He threaded dissolvable thread through the eye. He was the only medic in the whole desert who had this kind of stuff. DA11 had to be the luckiest guy out there.

“I’m gonna need you to focus on me,” he implored. DA11 frowned, but resettled his attention to Jet Star’s face. “If you pay any attention to your leg at all, you’ll notice when the needle goes in. It’s easier to just focus attention on something—or someone—else. So, to start this conversation: how’d you get out of Battery City?”

DA11 hummed. “Well, I… I don’t quite recall my time there—” _Which means he’s a lucky one,_ Jet thought as he plunged the needle in. “—but I know I, uh, I hit… I hit my head _really_ hard. Or fell. I think I fell, actually. But, either way, I hit— I hit my head. Someone tried to, uh, to…” He trailed off here, eyes floating to the side of Jet’s face, to the sand beyond them.

“It’s okay,” he assured quietly. “I know what goes on behind closed doors in that damn city. They almost had the chance to do the same to me when I was really young.”

DA11 let out a long breath, as though he’d been holding it. He nodded, eyes shiny, but forged ahead. “Someone grabbed me and tried to, um, to _use_ me. I-I _kicked_ him— _hard.”_ He shook his head mournfully. “I shouldn’t have done that, Jet Star. They kept me for a few more days.” He shuddered hard. A bead of sweat trailed down the profile of his face. “When I _did_ finally get the chance to escape, I was weak. Someone was walking in.” His vision tunneled; he was reliving the memory. Jet had done it enough to recognize it. “I ducked under my owner’s arm, ran from the kitchen. He grabbed a knife, and I—”

Jet snipped the extra thread after he’d knotted the stitches. DA11 looked down in shock, then back up in something almost like wonder.

“I didn’t even know you’d started,” he said quietly. “I-I don’t… I don’t have anything to pay you back with.”

Jet shook his head, pulling out the small roll of gauze and wrapping the newly stitched-up leg. “It was no problem. Here, I’ll tell you what. I can give you a ride to the Nest, and— Have you heard of Destroya?”

DA11 huffed. “Any droid has heard of Destroya, whether it be in passing or a daily thing. Yes, I know of her.”

“Okay, so I can give you a ride to the Nest, where the body of Destroya resides,” he offered. “It’s not too far off, just—” He looked at where the front of his car was pointing—northeast—and pointed a little off of that. “—a few miles east of here. I would be riding by it on my way back anyway, so it’s not a big deal.”

DA11 considered this for a few moments. Then, “Sure. I think I’d like that, Jet Star.”

Jet smiled. “I can carry you to my car.”

DA11 looked up as Jet Star stood with the toolbox and the first aid kit in either hand, seeming to have just realized his predicament. “Uh, please?”

Once they were both safely strapped into the trans am, Jet Star gunned it down the Getaway Mile. DA11 looked beseechingly at the radio, to which Jet replied by turning it on and up. The smile that appeared on DA11’s face was worth it. It didn’t take very long at all for them to reach the Nest, the couple of city blocks of three-story apartments coming into view and then the copper helm of Destroya catching DA11’s eyes.

“Well,” Jet said as he put the car in park at the side of the road. “Here we are; the Nest. I know some people here who owe me a favor. They’ll watch out for you.”

Jet came around to DA11’s side of the car and easily picked him up, kicking the door closed with one foot. DA11 shifted a little, but he was light enough that it didn’t really matter at all.

“Jet Star is your Killjoys alias,” DA11 said. Jet hummed and nodded. “I don’t know what my name might’ve been, uh, before, but I-I don’t want to be model D-A-Eleven for the rest of my life. Call me… Brobeck.”

“Brobeck?” Jet chuckled, navigating around Destroya’s ruins and the dozens of radios clustered around her. “What’s that mean?”

In lieu of a response, he said, “Do you know what _Jet Star_ means?”

“Fair,” Jet said. He hip-checked an already opened door—he knew who this was. “Maybe the next time we see each other, you can tell me what it means. Hey, Frida!”

The Nest’s local self-proclaimed mother looked up from her painting. She’d chosen the alias Frida Kahlo after the Mexican artist from so long ago. Frida—the Killjoy—was also Mexican; her family had immigrated during the Helium Wars, when she was too young to remember it. Frida also enjoyed painting—hence her current project, which took place directly on the wall of her apartment. It was too soon to really tell what she was getting at.

 _“Hola, mijo,”_ she answered kindly, setting aside her palette. _“Bienvenido._ Who’s this?” Her accent was thicker than anyone could even _try_ to slice through. Jet loved that about her.

“This is Brobeck,” he introduced. “Male or neutral pronouns. His leg is really injured right now.”

Frida made a shocked little sound, bustling toward her old—but comfortable—couch to fuss with the flattened pillows and somehow still-soft throw blankets. Jet moved to set Brobeck down and Frida placed a pillow beneath his injured leg. Brobeck grunted but thanked her.

“We’ll have to get you some new clothes soon, as well,” Frida said. “The more… insensitive young men around here might take your current attire as an invitation. Sorry boys like them, they don’t know the difference between _sí o no._ Don’t worry, though, _mijo,_ I’ll grab the broom if one of them comes calling.”

“Thank you very much, ma’am,” Brobeck said earnestly.

Jet knew what was coming before it even came. “If you are to call me anything,” Frida said, “it is Mama or Frida. None of this _ma’am_ or _miss.”_

Brobeck nodded. He was tired; Jet could see it on his face.

“Thank you for this, Frida,” he said. “You know my beeper code if you need anything.” He briefly turned his attention back to Brobeck. “Until next time, Beck.”

Brobeck nodded, eyelids drooping. Frida pulled a throw from over the back of the couch and laid it carefully across the half-droid. It didn’t quite cover all of him—he was pretty tall—but it was the push toward sleep he was looking for.

“Drive safely,” Frida Kahlo implored.

Jet chuckled as he turned to leave. He could see Vaya and Vamos chasing each other in the yard—Frida’s twin children. He’d half to warn them to enter quietly when they finally _did_ go back inside.

“No safe driving if you wanna survive the Getaway Mile, Frida,” he answered. “Thank you again.”

He turned, leaving one more helped life behind.


	2. a middle distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An emergency, a conversation, a reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions of past rape, violence, and a little blood.

The call had come in at about ten at night. Jet Star was just coming back in, when it happened.

He put out his bike’s kickstand. Quick Morse code like lightning on Dr. D’s personal beeper. He opened the backdoor of the shack where the open garage was connected to. D was rolling his chair into his recording booth. He painstakingly removed his helmet from over his thick mass of coils. Someone was pleading in rapid-fire Japanese over the radio.

“English, kid, none of my translators are in the room,” Jet heard as he rounded a corner.

 _“I-I’m sorry,”_ the voice said. _“They’re, um, they don’t like me. Someone tried to use my daughter for their pleasure, but she’s not— She was born out here, she’s not meant for that, and I tried to fight them but I-I…”_ They choked off in a sob. _“My fiancé is hiding in our apartment with our kids but I’m in, I’m in Destroya’s ruins. They’re looking for me.”_

Jet met Dr. Death Defying’s eyes. They both shared the same thought.

“You get yours,” D ordered sharply.

Jet Star had _seen_ those clouds on his way back. He would help this person if he could, but in a storm like this? “The sandstorm—” he tried.

“Party, Ghoul, and Kobra,” Dr. D reinforced. “Find them, take them to the Nest, and help this family, Jet Star, do you understand?”

Jet sighed but nodded, turning out of the booth and heading down to Show Pony’s room, since that was the likely place the rest of his crew would be. True to prime, when he opened the door, he got a small, _“Ow,”_ that sounded too much like Kobra for the three of them _not_ to be in there. After all, Kobra was a magnet to his sibling and boyfriend; everywhere he went, Party and Ghoul were sure to follow.

“Fucker, get off the door,” Jet grouched. “We have to save someone, like, _yesterday.”_

Kobra moved with a great huff but replied, “I’m only sitting here because Pony stole my boyfriend and Pois took the only chair. Lemme get my helmet.”

Jet squinted at the youngest member of his crew. “Since when did you call Party _that?”_ he asked, watching Fun Ghoul scramble to get out from under Pony’s arm on the cot.

“What?” Kobra said, pushing a whole pile of jackets aside to reveal his yellow helmet, the red emblazoned _GOOD LUCK_ across the visor looking something like an eerie warning now. “Pois?”

“Yeah,” Jet drawled. Party chuckled as they stood as though they knew something their boyfriend decidedly didn’t, which Jet Star decided not to take offense to.

Kobra shrugged and didn’t answer, the fucker. Jet Star glanced down, spotted Ghoulie’s army green vest, and tossed it to its owner who’d previously been struggling to find it. Ghoul, apparently feeling more nonverbal today, threw it on and signed a quick _thank you._ Pony nodded approvingly.

“He’s learning those quickly,” they said.

“We gotta go,” Jet blurted, moving aside so he was no longer blocking the doorway. Party was the first to make it out, tapping Jet Star’s chest twice in quick order. “Bandana and goggles, Party, sandstorm is coming.”

“Got it, thanks,” his datemate called back.

Ghoul shuffled out, Kobra trying not to vibrate out of the atmosphere behind him. Jet was legitimately concerned for a second before decided that the Kobra Kid would be taking on the caller’s opponent or opponents; whoever they may be.

Kobra paused mid-step. “Fuck me,” he hissed, twisting like only he and his sibling could to look at Jet. “Takin’ the trans am, aren’t we?”

 _Ah,_ Jet thought, _so he’d just caught up._ “Yeah, there’s a sandstorm on its way,” he reiterated. “Ghoulie, don’t wear your stupid fuckin’ rubber mask, it ain’t gonna protect your eyes.”

Fun Ghoul hissed but, fortunately, dropped his Frankenstein mask—Jet could tell because it made a very distinctive sound when smacking the wooden floors of D’s shack. The clinking of keys alerted Jet Star that Party had picked up the keys to the trans am as he made his way out of the hallway and into the main part of the shack.

“Wrong,” he admonished his datemate, who looked almost like a deer caught in the headlights, their bandana pulled halfway to their mouth and their goggles coming down sideway from the top of their head. “Toss ‘em, I’m driving.”

Party Poison huffed but tossed the keys over Ghoul’s head. Jet caught them and made a beeline toward the front door, where he knew the trans am was lying in wait just outside. It only took a minute more for the four of them to be piled in, Party in the passenger seat with Kobra Kid behind them and Fun Ghoul behind Jet.

“Takeoff,” Party murmured as they turned on the radio and tuned into the one station that played nonstop music.

Jet Star pulled off with no further preamble, turning on the high beams as he pulled onto Route Guano and gunned it west, toward the Nest.

~*~

When the Nest was in sight, Jet Star turned down the music.

“We don’t know much about our targets,” he started, “but I’m gonna take my toolkit and my first aid kit into the ruins. Kobra, you’re gonna find the offender and use all that energy of yours. Party, Ghoul, find the victim’s fiancé and children and protect and reassure them.”

Ghoul made a gesture to the affirmative in the rearview. Kobra spoke his confirmation.

“Be safe, Star,” Party murmured, unbuckling and jumping out when Jet Star put it in park, pulling up their bandana and down their goggles as they did, sprinting their way through the impending sandstorm.

Fun Ghoul gave his boyfriend one backward glance to reaffirm his decision before following Party Poison out into the gale winds with a newfound determination. Kobra pulled on his helmet, the blood red _GOOD LUCK_ still feeling more like a warning than a a reassurance.

“I’d wish you luck, but, uh…” Jet said, pulling on his own helmet.

Kobra shrugged, the smirk audible in his voice. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t believe in luck; that’s why I chose these words for the fuckin’ helmet, Jetty Punch. Be safe.”

“Likewise,” Jet murmured to himself, even though the door had slammed shut and Kobra wouldn’t have heard him over the wind regardless. He grabbed up his toolkit and first aid kit from the floorboard of the backseats, sending up a quick prayer to the Witch and unbuckling his seatbelt.

The wind would’ve whipped at Jet Star’s hair had he given it the chance which, luckily, he hadn’t. He marched toward the ruins of Destroya’s helm, where a single, darkened light was shining, even duller against the darkness of the night and the sandstorm that was yet to happen. He increased his speed, even as the wind pushed him back.

When Jet Star ducked into the hollow of Destroya’s lip, he wasn’t expecting to hear the cagey rattling of a droid breathing so heavily. Well, he didn’t know _what_ he expected to hear, but _that_ wasn’t it, apparently. The helm blocked a vast majority of the incoming winds, was likely safe enough for Jet to take off his helmet.

A flash of blue hair. He got a good look at the victim; by the looks of it, fully droid, which was weird, because droids weren’t physically able to exit Battery City by Better Living’s own design. They’d either shut down or explode, depending on the model—but they wouldn’t die. That was something Jet had always truly hated BL/ind for; no matter how damaged a droid that’d been made from scratch was, no matter how ripped apart they were, no matter how mad they’d gone, a droid wouldn’t die until their chip was removed.

So how had this droid ended up all the way in Zone 4?

Jet Star removed his helmet and knelt before them, setting down his toolbox to his left and his first aid kit to his right. No matter what the signs advertised, BLi-branded droids _could_ and _did_ feel, and they felt pain, fear, and anguish just as vividly as human-droids and full humans did.

“Hey,” he breathed, barely audible over the roaring winds.

The droid jolted, let out a short mechanical shriek, and scrambled further backward into the helm of Destroya. The brief glance Jet got of their face made him realize that they had almost black irises and it was the palm of one of their hands that was glowing; a helpful upgrade, but something BLi wouldn’t have done.

“Hey, Dr. Death Defying sent me,” Jet said, still keeping his tone gentle like he did when Ghoul was coming down from a particularly bad meltdown. “My name is Jet Star, I use male pronouns, and I’m here to help you.”

The droid peeked up over the edge of their arm tentatively.

“What’s your name?” Jet inquired.

“Model C-M-Four, ID number 613459—”

“I didn’t ask for your model or ID,” Jet cut them off. “What’s your name? What do you call yourself?”

CM4 examined Jet Star and slowly unfolded, revealing why they’d been in that position in the first place: their stomach panel had been torn up in the fight. Their legs went out and they settled back on their palms, which would’ve extinguished the light had there not been another protruding from their chest like a headlight.

“Cain,” the droid answered. “He/him.” He breathed heavily, and something in his chest cavity clanked. Steam began to puff out. “I-I don’t, I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know what all’s, what’s damaged.”

“Don’t worry about it, Cain,” Jet reassured. He picked up the mini flashlight from his toolbox and ducked to shine it into Cain’s chest cavity, assessing the problems with a professional eye. _Ha,_ he thought drily, _funny._ “Hm. Looks like whoever got you must’ve nicked your oxygen converters. It’s not too bad, though,” he quickly amended before Cain’s anxious huffing got any worse. “Easily welded, no further internal damage. Your pumper’s still pumping strong. Other than the converters and your actual panel, everything’s in tip-top shape, Cain. If I could get at your reducer panel, I can start right up on fixing you up.”

Cain nodded tearfully, head looking about ready to fall off its hinges. He held out his left arm, hand clenched into a fist, and a portion of his forearm hissed open. Jet Star would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little shocked; reducers weren’t set in the forearm; they were _always_ set somewhere in the back of a droid’s head, no exceptions _ever._ He couldn’t help but feel relieved at the notion of not having to dig into this poor guy’s skull. He quickly set Cain’s reducers at low levels; his breathing evened out.

Jet Star grabbed his welding iron and his flashlight and got to work. Within about two hours or so, he’d finished. He decided not to set Cain’s reducers all the way up—he didn’t want all that pain at once, Jet knew—and dropped his things back into the toolkit, settling back onto his ass to relieve his cramping legs.

“How’s it feeling?” he checked.

Cain took a deep breath and nodded, setting one hand against his chest. He nodded again, a miniscule motion. “It feels a lot better, thank you.”

“Of course,” Jet replied. His radio wasn’t blowing anything out but static, so he left it for the time being. “Now, excuse me for my curiosity, but I’ve got a couple questions.”

Cain shrugged. “We’ve got time, if the wind outside is anything to tell by. You’re good to invade any privacy you think I might want; you’ve just seen my insides, after all.”

Jet Star hummed, considering his first question. “There are… quite a few things.”

Cain made a gesture that said _go ahead_ more clearly than his words could’ve.

“Okay…” Jet threw around a few drafts of the question and then finally said, “How did you end up in the desert? You’re a BL-branded droid. A really high-tech one, at that.”

“I was a prototype,” Cain admitted, easing into the explanation. “CM4, the newest model. I was cleared for personal use to someone. She… didn’t pay attention. I got restless. I mean, the door was always _right there,_ and it’s not like she really cared anyway, I mean… She never powered me down when she left; just left me in my charging station. So I-I left. It was easy. The Lobby is _filled_ with working droids like me. The edge of the Lobby was unguarded. I… I left. I _left,_ Jet Star.”

There was this melancholy look on Cain’s face, and Jet _knew_ that this wasn’t the end of Cain’s story. “But…?”

“But I…” Cain glanced up, eyes flitting across the roof of Destroya’s helm uneasily. “But I shut down. I collapsed in the sand a few steps out of the city. I was staring at the sun.” A wistful look appeared on his face, airy as his shy smile. “Imagine that. I make it a few feet out, drop to my knees in the sand, staring up at the sun. I had a vision while I was there, Jet Star. Destroya.” He placed a careful, silent hand on the shell of Destroya’s helm. “Someone out there needed me. She said no droid deserved their fate unless it was one with a happy ending, and she wanted to give me that. I woke up a week after my initial runaway. My hair was brown before I left the city. I’d been out in the sun for so long, unnoticed, that my hair was near white when I woke up.”

“So you dyed it blue,” Jet finished.

Cain nodded proudly. “My fiancé helped me. He helps with a lot of things. We help each other.”

Jet Star felt himself soften, not able to stop himself from thinking of Party. “A fiancé?”

The droid’s smile widened, his eyes lighting up. “Yeah. He was the only Killjoy even partially droid here when I first came. He helped where he could, and he offered for me to stay with him in his new apartment since the last person who’d lived there had just moved out. He managed to scrap me a charging station.” Cain’s voice became giddy, a drastic contrast to the howling wind. “We got to know each other. One day, he-he had a nightmare and I-I didn’t really know…” His inflection turned upward. “I didn’t know how to handle those; the closest thing to one was my vision of Destroya. He’s only part droid, but he— he went through the same stuff, he had gone through it and so had I, so I-I understood. I didn’t know how to help him, but I understood.” His eyes crinkled. “It was enough.”

Jet nodded. “I know what you mean. My datemate and I had rough beginnings, but we eventually came around… It took a long time.”

Cain tilted his head. “How long have you been together?”

“Four years.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

It was silent save for the storm for only a few moments before Cain spoke up once more. “Have you thought of proposing? Four years is an awful long time for someone out here to survive.”

Jet nodded, blinking blearily. He _had_ thought of courting Party in marriage. They weren’t perfect—no one ever was—but, to Jet, they were they closest thing he could get. It felt like an eternity since that night on the rooftop.

“Storm should let out by sunrise,” he said, closing his eye and leaning back until he hit a bronze wall. “I need rest, Cain. Wake me up when you hear it slowing.”

Jet Star fell into a dreamless sleep.

~*~

Sunrises in the desert were gorgeous, especially when they were the one thing someone was looking forward to through the night.

Jet Star, helmet donned, a toolbox in one hand and a first aid kit in the other, ducked out from under Destroya’s hollowed lip, turning around after a few feet to watch as Cain stepped out onto the sands. His neon blue hair blazed underneath the morning sun.

“Star!”

Party _really_ could’ve warned for impact, but they both knew that would be too kind on Party’s part. They crashed into him so hard, Jet Star’s helmet was knocked off. He dropped both his toolbox and his first aid kit to catch his lover, who shoved their face in the crook of Jet’s neck where he could feel how wide they were smiling. Jet didn’t even realize he was laughing until he heard Kobra.

“What’s so funny?” the Kobra Kid called. When Jet Star looked up, he saw that the youngest Fabulous Killjoy had a black eye, a swollen lip, and a few more scratches than he did when he’d exited the trans am last night. He was smiling though, one arm squeezing tight around Fun Ghoul (who was _also_ grinning, the little fucker) and the other carrying his infamous yellow helmet.

To Ghoul’s right, though, a tall young man, clean-shaven and brown-haired and limping on one elbow crutch. Two young children squealed and laughed and screamed as they ran on past him, all the way to Cain, who ducked down to catch both of them in either arm.

“Brobeck,” Jet said, shocked that he still remembered the name. His memory was perpetually shot, after all.

“Hello, Jet Star,” Brobeck answered calmly, limping over. The elbow crutch was for the leg Jet _hadn’t_ stitched up all those years ago. Brobeck dipped his head at Jet, something like gratefulness or pleasant surprise painted over his features. He slowly made his way to Cain, who met him halfway. The taller of the pair dipped down to kiss the little girl’s head, then the little boy’s. A shining smile appeared on his face as he gazed down at Cain adoringly.

“Beck,” Cain greeted slyly.

Brobeck ducked down to kiss him, too, for good measure. Jet Star caught himself aching for something—evidently, for _that,_ the sincere peacefulness and longevity Brobeck and Cain had forged.

Party Poison, who’d long since dropped to their feet, grabbed Jet by the lapel of his jacket and pulled him down to capture him with their lips in a chaste kiss that made him long for more. Party giggled, jerking their head over to where Kobra and Ghoul still were. Ghoul was wrapped around Kobra’s waist, being kept upright mostly by the hands on the undersides of his legs, laying smooches all over Kobra’s face.

“Gross,” Jet breathed.

Party smiled, nodding now to Brobeck and Cain. They now had a kid each—Cain the little girl and Beck the little boy, a clear balance of weight distribution—and were talking in hushed tones, the red rising sun making their still-porcelain skin glow.

“Thank you, Jet Star,” Cain called, still not breaking eye contact with his fiancé.

Jet startled, blinking. “Of course. Why would I leave someone in need hanging?” He glanced down, then back up. “Brobeck, you’re sure you don’t want a tune-up for that leg?”

Brobeck shrugged one shoulder, one corner of his mouth tilted up. “Maybe one day, but I like it better when Cain has to get up and grab the kids before they get into some trouble.”

As if on cue, both the kids dropped out of their fathers’ arms like stones, running off to chase each other around the sands. Cain huffed exasperatedly, whole body slumping forward. His forehead rested against Brobeck’s shoulder lightly for only a moment before he brought himself back up again. He leaned up to peck Brobeck on the jaw.

“Be right back,” he said, turning to chase after the kids.

Brobeck dragged over to Jet and Jet met him halfway.

“An anonymous person or a figure yet to be known,” Beck said matter-of-factly, smirking.

Jet tilted his head, staring curiously. “My memory’s not all there, Brobeck.”

“You asked what Brobeck meant,” he explained. “I decided. That was it. And thank you for all you’ve done for my family. I appreciate it.”

“You have _kids,”_ Jet blurted in awe. “I think you deserve it for managing to do _that.”_

Beck chuckled. “Scrapped prototypes. Cain was devastated when we found them, so we brought them back here. We planned to do a burial in Destroya’s helm, but… sparks _do_ travel, I suppose.” His eyes were soft as he watched sidelong; his fiancé chased the kids around the sands, bellowing laughter erupting from him where there’d been merely an almost-empty stomach cavity before. “They get that from their pop.”

Jet nodded. “It was nice seeing you again, Beck.”

“The same to you, Jet Star.”

Without further adieu, Brobeck fully turned and made his way, slowly and painstakingly, toward Cain. Jet faced away as well, eyed up the dusty trans am in the middle distance, and then resettled his gaze on Party, who he’d caught looking at him with this _really_ cute face, like Jet Star had hung the moon.

“Come on, Star,” they said, tilting their head towards the trans am. They reached one hand out and Jet didn’t hesitate to close the gap and hold it.

The Fabulous Killjoys turned toward home having helped a family they were uncertain they’d ever see again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys know the gist of this. I'll give you the third and final chapter soon enough. :)


	3. road's end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding and some helaciously tragic backstories.

They’d been moved into the Diner for a few weeks at best. When Jet and Kobra came back from their ride—a quick run to chase the dracs off Pony and Cherri’s tails—it was in a haze of heat and amused smiles at each other.

Jet Star kicked up the stand and left his bike behind—for now, at least—and trotted up to the glass doors, smile fading as he came closer. There was a note taped to the door, and the trans am was nowhere to be seen. Kobra’s footsteps halted behind him. Jet looked back and then at the paper.

“You think we should make a break for it?” Kobra asked, voice calmer and more still than either of them were feeling.

Jet squinted. “This… isn’t a BL eviction notice.” He pulled it from the door, flipped it open. He couldn’t help his face lighting up. “It’s a wedding invitation.”

Kobra shuffled forward in the sand, took it, and read it aloud through his helmet _: “The Fabulous Killjoys are cordially invited to the wedding ceremony of Brobeck and Cain.”_ Jet could hear his smile. “Destroya, we got _invited_ to something, Jet!”

Jet guffawed. “You don’t remember them, do you, Kobra?” he said.

“Nah, I’m more of a face before name kinda guy,” Kobra dismissed with a wave of his hand.

“Brobeck and Cain are the droids we helped that one time over at the Nest, them and their two kids.” Kobra stood there, still and awkward, trying to determine when _that_ might’ve been, as though he’d helped hundreds of droids since then. “The sandstorm.”

“Oh!” Kobra shook his head, reaching up to take his helmet off, finally. “Okay, yeah. Wedding it is, then.”

~*~

DA11 was unaware of its surroundings before. It was lying on the floor, a _hard_ floor, and its head was throbbing. Was its head _supposed_ to do that? Why was it on the floor?

A man appeared in its line of sight and DA11’s arm was grabbed in a vice-like grip. It was pulled upward and shoved roughly against a wall, where its thin, tight pants were pulled at. It was left staring up into the eyes of the man, dark and merciless and not even fully there. In a moment of panic—a flash of hot, burning fear, brighter than anything DA11 could ever know—it was kicking out with a loud, rasping grunt.

The man yelled, doubling over. DA11 could do nothing but stand pressed against the wall, cowering in terror even as the man came back up with dead rage burning in his eyes. DA11 was grabbed again, a quiet cry bursting forth from its throat as it was forced into a room off of the room it’d woken up in. This new room was much darker than the last, with a single cot and a shackle to the wall.

DA11 was shackled; the cuff was cold and heavy and chrome, a contrast against its tantalizing black ensemble. It was left in the dark there. The man stomped out, and the door was locked. DA11 stared, breathing heavily from where it sat on the cot.

Later that night, when it couldn’t keep its eyes open and the thin elastic plastic of the cot was welcoming it, DA11 slept. It slept and it dreamt.

The woman in the dream was soft and kind to it, cold bronze fingers cradling its face. Her bronze helm gleamed, her eyes behind it warmer than the cot. She pushed back its dark hair.

“You are unique,” she said. “You are unique and glorious, but nobody sees you yet. Make yourself seen. Be more than they want you to be, sing loud. You will return.”

DA11 woke to the feeling of its— _his—_ hands being pushed down against the rail of the cot, and—

He didn’t think of that. He didn’t think of the horror he felt when he caught a glimpse of scar tissue at the joint of his hip where his right leg should’ve started, of the pristine white lacing up part of his side, up his back and over the left shoulder. A skin-colored sleeve was melded into the too-white shoulder. It crept just so and stopped halfway up the side of his neck.

It repeated. He didn’t know how long. His stomach gurgled. His throat parched. He didn’t die.

The sounds of company floated into his tiny box-room. The man unlocked the door and unshackled his wrist.

“Behave,” he warned gruffly, “or you’ll never see the light of day again.”

DA11 swallowed but nodded. He was shoved under the man’s arm and walked out of the room he’d woken up in what felt like an eternity ago. His head was throbbing. People roamed the living areas. DA11 assessed all of them; none of them posed a threat to him. His man lead him into the kitchen. The door was clicking open. The man was distracted.

DA11 swallowed his fear at the prospect of what could’ve lied outside of the walls of this place and ducked out from under the man’s arm, driving the room out of its collective stupor. He was grabbed again, but fighting wasn’t his best option—it was his _only_ option.

DA11 was coming free just as a knife slashed down, swiping him across the left leg. Pain blurred out of him and a godless scream clawed its way out of his throat before he could stop it. He turned and, on aching leg and hip, scrambled away from this Hell, somehow making it out the door and onto the dimly lit street.

Huffing and hurting, tears stinging his eyes, DA11 took flight down to his left, leaving droplets of scarlet in his wake. There was the low rumbling of a motorbike coming toward him.

He didn’t remember what happened, just that he awoke because he’d crashed in an ocean of sand. DA11 walked until he could no longer, collapsing into the hot sand. He pressed his hands against the wound for hours upon hours.

There was a purring rumble in the near distance. A busted-up muscle car was making its way toward him.

~*~

Cora was nervous. Her daddy had told her everything would be alright, that all she had to do was throw the colors at him and Pop after they kissed.

That didn’t make up for the fact that there were _lots_ of people here now, and that was _really_ scary. And Daddy and Pop were both really busy right now, and Nana Frida was busy _with_ them, and Axel wasn’t paying attention.

“Daddy said you’re supposed to keep the pillow _still,”_ she griped. “So the rings don’t fall off!”

Axel whined babyishly, flapping the pillow up and down. Cora got the message: he didn’t even want to be out of bed right now, let alone _clothed._ But it wasn’t even that bad! The white dress she was wearing wasn’t itchy _at all._ Axel had it good; he didn’t have to worry about a skirt flying up too high.

“Where are my favorite kiddies?”

The siblings stopped in their tracks. Party Poison burst into the room wearing their best formal attire—a vivid blue tank top with a flowy black shirt and heeled black boots. Their hair was combed out for once (likely painstakingly, due to its former lack of any form of neatness) and styled. Their black eyeliner, days old probably, made their eyes pop. The glitter decorating their hair and hands only topped off the look.

“Hey, munchkins!” they greeted. “How’re we feelin’, huh?”

Cora laughed, but went over to hug Party. Axel made an unintelligible sound of glee and dropped his little pillow—thank Destroya the rings were with Nana Frida—too join her. Party crouched to catch them both and confidently rose back up to stand tall with a young droid in either arm. They’d only got used to doing that on more recent visits.

“Where’s Fun Ghoul?” Cora asked.

Party shrugged, and it jostled the kids enough to make them both giggle. “Frida stole him to help set up the chairs. He’s better at that sort of thing and I just wanted to see my bee and my ladybug, so she cut me loose.”

Axel squealed, kicking his legs excitedly. Party bounced him, smiling wide.

“I have a question,” Cora said shyly.

Party directed all their attention back to her. “Yeah, Ladybug?”

She grunted a sigh as she tried, frustrated, to word her question. “How do I, um…”

Party’s eyes softened. “You’re nervous about being up in front of all those people, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” she admitted, “duh. And I wanted to ask you because Pop and Daddy are busy and so was Nana, and you’re in front of lots of people _all_ the time. Except you’re, like, _never_ scared!”

Party chuckled. “That’s not true.”

Cora and Axel gave them matching expressions of curious shock.

“It’s not?” the elder asked, swinging her legs absently.

Party Poison shook their head. “It’s not, Bug. You see, to be on stage in front of lots of people, you _have_ to be scared, at least a little bit. If you’re not scared, then how would you know that everything _did_ turn out, huh? There’s no way of knowing, Bug. It’s okay to be scared, but just know it’s _also_ okay to be happy and at peace with the result.”

~*~

CM4’s owner didn’t pay attention to him.

It was clear, plain and simple. She didn’t pay attention to him. Sometimes she’d use him for her pleasure, but he’d always end up back in his charging station, alone again until the next time she wished to pleasure herself. Alone for long periods of time. Days, weeks, sometimes months. He remained there as he was programmed to, for days and weeks and months or as long as his Ma’am’s abstinence lasted, even when she didn’t power him down. He collected dust.

It happened one day when he was pleasuring her again, a particularly rough attempt to make it onto her bed. CM4 was shoved backward, and Ma’am wasn’t paying attention. The back of his head smashed into a corner of a bedframe and he flailed, slamming his left arm against the wall trying to catch himself.

Ma’am grabbed his arm and shoved him backward so he was laying sideways on the bed. That night, she pleasured herself until she fell asleep. CM4, in the cold room, cried for the first time since he was assembled. Actual tears leaked from the corner of his eyes as he laid on his Ma’am’s bed wearing nothing.

His battery was low. CM4, still weeping in that human way he’d never known, peeled himself away from Ma’am, did his basic washing maneuvers, redressed himself, and turned to station himself on his charger. He didn’t stop crying until the dim grey light of the sky dome washed white and clear, indicating morning.

Ma’am left for work at the same time she did every morning, only letting out a quiet sniff as she passed him. CM4 winced when the door slammed shut. He stood there. He stood for hours. A thought struck him like lightning, something he’d never conjured even in his most lucid state.

CM4 stepped off his charging station, walked out into the hallway, unlocked the front door, and left the house. It was _that simple._ He just… _left._ He walked down the street, entered the Lobby, and determined the fastest route out into the desert. The Lobby’s borders were open—for now, at least; the walls were built and destroyed constantly—and CM4 left and left and left, exited Battery City from between a dumpster full of droid parts and a crumbling portion of wall.

Underneath a sun that wasn’t made of fluorescent lights, CM4 walked a few steps. Something in him was tingling like—what was that?—the most human sensation he’d ever known. A sparking, singing sensation that made his eyes water and his knees wobble.

CM4’s knees hit the hot sand and, tears rolling down his face, closed his eyes against a neon sun. A low, buzzing hum alerted him to what was _actually_ happening moments before it happened.

CM4 shut down a moment into mercy.

~*~

The beginning and the end of the world was _here._

Brobeck took deep breaths, clenching and unclenching his fists and wiping them off on his pristine white pants. His crutch made a clinking noise when it was jostled. It was such an old and familiar sound that it calmed him. Distracted him for only a moment as he blinked into the jarringly bright sun. The sunlight was only blinding for a moment before Frida stepped into his line of sight.

“It’s your time,” she said, bringing up the thick white blindfold. “He’ll lead you through the dark, _mijo.”_

Brobeck nodded. Frida tied the blindfold around his head. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t see and it didn’t scare him because Cain _would_ lead him through the darkness. He’d do the same for Cain. They’d do the same for their kids.

A gentle, almost frail hand made its way to the small of Brobeck’s back, but these things didn’t frighten him anymore. Instead, because he _knew_ Frida Kahlo was the one to his right, Brobeck limped his way forward. Frida watched where he put the crutch down each time, careful not to get in his way. She was gentle in helping him, step by step, forward until…

 _Until._ Her hand left his back. Brobeck’s hands were sweaty—the skin-like sleeve where his left arm had probably once been was designed to keep human appearances, just as Cain’s whole body was—and he couldn’t _see._ The panic set in at the hallway point between Point A and Point B, the start versus the stop.

The crutch slipped from his grip in the next three steps. A small collective gasp left the lips of the crowd.

 _“No,”_ he breathed, closing his eyes behind the blindfold, paralyzed mere feet away from the finishing line, his husband-to-be likely waiting for him on the other side.

~*~

The young man wandering around the body of Destroya wasn’t an oddity. People did that near _constantly._ What _was_ strange, however, was that this young man was a full droid.

Brobeck left the doorway of the newly emptied apartment. His right hip jostled a little, but he jogged it toward the white-haired droid who shook in the presence of the Queen of Technology. Upon nearing him—precisely ten feet away, no more and no less—the droid’s head snapped up.

He turned on his heel and pressed his back against the bronze lady. His eyes flew upward. Brobeck _was_ pretty tall.

“You’re a droid,” Brobeck breathed, tilting his head curiously.

“Come near me,” the droid growled threateningly, even as his voice trembled, “and I will tear you to pieces.”

In a moment of understanding, Beck shrugged off his jacket, keeping his movements as quick and professional as he’d always known how to be. The droid’s eyebrows cocked strangely, as though he recognized the action. Brobeck tugged so the loose collar of his hand-me-down shirt came away from the left side of his neck. He smiled out of the corner of his mouth a little sadly.

“I’m already in pieces,” he admitted. The cuffs of the jacket hanging clenched from his unmovable hand dragged lazily in the sand. “I just wanted to tell you: myself and Miss Frida Kahlo are your best options for housing if ever you’d like to move into the Nest. I’m an organic droid and she nursed me back to health when I first came to the desert. Technically, I-I mean. But that’s only if you wanted to.” He shrugged.

The droid regarded him with… _something_ in his eyes. He had this heady look about him, like maybe he felt he didn’t belong out here or in that body. Brobeck felt for him. And he certainly _couldn’t_ have made it out here without at least a _little_ divine help; BLi-produced droids self-destructed as soon as they hit the sands.

“I… I think I’ll take you up on it,” he said softly. “I’m a… M-Model C-M-Four, Identification Number—”

“Your model and ID aren’t a name,” Brobeck cut him off. “For example, I’m a D-A-Eleven, but there are _hundreds_ of me out there. I call myself Brobeck, my pronouns are he/him or they/them. It’s very nice to meet you. You don’t have to come up with a name right away, or at all for that matter, but self-discovery is a journey I’ve learned everyone has to take.”

CM4 stared up at him with wide eyes for so long, Brobeck thought he’d short-circuited. And then: “O-Okay. Um. I— Where’s your house?”

“It’s more an apartment,” Brobeck answered, jerking his head in the direction of the Nest. “Here, come on. I can get you in some different clothes; how does that sound?”

CM4 nodded. Without any further adieu, Beck turned on his heel and walked to his apartment. He didn’t check to see if CM4 was following; he knew the droid would be right behind him.

He walked through the door and CM4 closed it behind himself. Brobeck carefully set himself down on the ratty but comfortable sofa he’d managed to scrap using Frida’s twins and their troupe of friends. CM4 stood awkwardly at the opening of the doorway into the living room. Brobeck took pity on him and patted the spot beside himself. CM4 jolted—as though shocked—and tentatively made his way to the couch. He glanced at it, then at Brobeck, and then sat down stiffly.

“You…” He inhaled and Brobeck could hear it shake. “Don’t you want to, uh… to use, to use me?”

Brobeck felt something dark and disgusting and aching unfurl in his sternum. “No, I’d-I’d never want to— I…” He felt like _he_ was malfunctioning. The robotic voice in the back of his head said, _You’ve upset him, now you must service him._ Brobeck was still trying to find out how to get rid of that voice. “I need you to-to understand this, please. I _know_ you were a pornodroid, I know, I—” He gasped for air, pressing a hand to his eyes as if that could have made this any easier. “I-I’m only barely half-droid, but I, but I-I… I…”

Brobeck, for the first time since the last person had asked him for services, sobbed, deep and galling and heavy from his chest. CM4—almost, it seemed, by accident—moved forward to place a gentle hand on the top of his head. It… eased him, somewhat. That move could, in no way, be portrayed as sexual. CM4 jerked his hand away after only few seconds, though, looking surprised at himself. Brobeck noted the clear display of emotion, a perfect replication of the human psyche.

“Thank— Thank you,” Brobeck huffed, pulling his right leg up by the knee so he could sit curled up on the couch. The wall was blank; Beck planned on filling it with whatever he could. Frida had offered to help him paint but, for now, he’d probably get a custom dyed blanket or tapestry or something.

“It was, um, no problem,” CM4 answered quietly, bringing his own legs up to mirror Beck’s position.

And so that’s how they sat; curled up facing a still-blank wall on an overstuffed old sofa, no words exchanged and warmth blossoming in previously cold chests.

~*~

Cora watched the catastrophe as it happened.

The wedding had commenced. Pop was walking in from the left side and Daddy was walking in from the right. Nana Frida was with Daddy and, since Mister Jet Star had gotten here before the start, Mister Jet Star was with Pop. Halfway until they got to the middle of either aisle, Nana Frida and Mister Jet let go of Daddy and Pop.

Pop’s whole body shuddered, but he walked slowly forward. Daddy took three long, shaky strides, lips pressed tight into a thin line. Cora watched as his crutch fell in slow motion. The crowd gasped. Daddy’s mouth formed _no_ and his face got all drawn up like he was gonna cry but she couldn’t hear it, not when she was breathing so heavy.

Cora was _running_ toward him, as fast as she possibly could. Party had taken her basket of color bombs and ushered her forward at the same time as Ghoul carefully took the ring-bearing pillow from Axel so her little brother could come help Daddy, too.

The crowd’s eyes were on her, but she couldn’t let that stop her now.

~*~

Scrapping things was quite possibly the handiest thing when your roommate was fully droid.

Brobeck had gone out with Vaya and Vamos—the Nest’s local thrifters—when the newly-dubbed Cain’s battery had gotten so low, he’d been immobilized. He’d lasted two whole weeks (long enough to manage himself a name) before Beck and the twins had found a charger for his particular model. It was pretty easy, actually. Neither of the twins—self-proclaimed professionals at their craft—had believed it at first. But, alas, they’d found the charger to a Model CM4 and Brobeck got to bring it home.

He also got to pick Cain up off the couch and set him on his feet on the charging pads. He made a soft keening sound as his knees nearly buckled, but Brobeck wedged himself under the droid’s arm, pushing him upright until an electric shock locked his knees into place and Cain was standing laxly on the charger.

It also came in handy for the little upgrades like Cain’s palm flashlights.

That, and the kids.

It was just another scrapping day—the twins were wearing matching purple bracelets, which meant they were both using they/them pronouns, and Cain was fully charged and energetic as ever with a spark in his bright eyes. Brobeck was walking slowly around this particular trash heap; his hip was bothering him again. Something felt… _strange_ about today. Like something bad or something good. Or maybe both.

“Beck!” one of the twins called. Their head popped up over the side of the trash. It was Vamos—pink hair and all—and they looked kind of perturbed.

Brobeck speed-walked around. Vaya stood beside Cain, whose head was turned down. His body was more still than it typically was, _very_ still. Vaya looked up and their eyes had the same perturbed look as their twin, eyebrows drawn helplessly. Brobeck took forward to his (recently determined) boyfriend.

“Cain,” he called. “What’s—?”

“They’re dead.”

Beck recoiled. He’d _never_ heard Cain sound so fragile, so _broken._ Maybe when they first met, _maybe,_ but… He sounded miserable. When he finally looked up and back, Brobeck was able to see just how distraught he was.

“Who, Cain?” he asked, taking a few more steps. A tiny… _something_ became visible over Cain’s shoulder.

Cain stepped aside, and Brobeck’s heart dropped and then promptly tunneled into the core of the Earth. Two androids—models made to look like children, likely designed as members to the most perfect family—were lying at the foot of the trash pile, the small boy curled into the body of the slightly bigger girl. No wonder Cain had been so distraught.

The four of them stood there for a long time. Then Vaya said, “We could bury them in Destroya’s helm.”

Cain looked away, tears bright in his eyes. His lower lip wobbled. “They don’t have any names. They were scrapped prototypes of a cancelled model. What are we—?”

He sobbed.

That night, they came back to the Nest carrying two tiny robotic bodies. Cain entered first, carrying the little girl droid, and Brobeck followed him, carrying the little boy. They laid the prototypes into the soft golden sand here, then ducked back out of the helm and grabbed onto each other. They held tight.

It was barely an hour later, holding each other on the sofa, when there were frantic knocks on the door. Cain made a noise of acknowledgement and the door slammed open, making them both jump.

The twins stood at the door, panting.

Vamos huffed, “You guys should—”

“—come see this!” Vaya finished in a rush of hot air. They were both grinning wide, a drastic contrast to what either of the droids were feeling.

They left the apartment anyway. Out near Destroya’s ruins, wandering through the mess of radios, were two siblings. The older sister was holding the younger brother’s hand. When they saw Brobeck and Cain, their eyes lit up. The boy took off running, and Cain crouched to catch him. There were tears in his eyes again.

The girl was more hesitant. She stopped before Brobeck, staring up as he stared back down.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Cora. That’s my brother Axel. Will you be our daddy?”

Cain looked over, the boy—Axel—balanced on his hip. His eyes were alight. Brobeck considered his boyfriend with adoration in his eyes, pensive.

“Yeah, Cora, I’ll be, I’ll be your Daddy,” he answered, kneeling since his leg was being bitchy today. “But that means that man right there—” He pointed to Cain, who smiled and waved with the hand that wasn’t holding Axel. “—is your pop.”

“Okay!” Cora said cheerily. Her hands twitched, as though she wanted to reach out, but she stopped herself. “Um, I-I want, I want to, um…”

She couldn’t seem to get it out. Beck got the message anyway, letting a sigh escape him as he opened his arms and Cora scrambled into them, hugging him tight. He looked up at Cain, who was regarding the younger child with bright, clear happiness. Axel seemed to be making only sounds, not-quite words, but that was the last thing Cain and Beck were worried about.

The four of them stood near Destroya and became a family.

~*~

Brobeck couldn’t help the tears that slipped out. They came rolling out from under the blindfold, dripping from his chin as he stood there in agony and belittled himself for being so imbecilic as to not get his bum leg repaired sooner.

The pitter-patter of little feet running toward him alerted him too late of Cora and Axel. There was no time to kneel in their sudden and graceful appearances, but maybe he and Cain had done something right. A little hand grabbed his right hand and placed it on a shoulder.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Cora said to his right. “You can lean on me. You won’t hurt me.”

Axel made a groan that _almost_ sounded like _yeah_ but didn’t quite reach. He was hanging on tightly to Brobeck’s left hand.

“Come on, it’s okay,” his daughter encouraged. “Just walk, Daddy, I’ve got you.”

Brobeck managed to amble forward a few more steps. Cora remained unflinching beneath his hand. Axel made little keening encouragements in his own little way. Every time Beck stopped—even just to catch his breath—the little boy would urge him forward with rapid squeaks.

Toward what he assumed was the end, Cora murmured, “Come on, Daddy, just a little more, that’s all.”

And then they stopped. Brobeck collapsed into Cain’s arms clumsily just after soft, wrinkled hands pulled off their blindfolds. Cain made an _umph_ sound but wedged himself under Brobeck’s right arm, nudging the taller man to stand up straighter. When Beck looked down at him, Cain sent up a wink and a smile. Cora and Axel scattered to get their things.

“We are beginning now, no?” Frida smiled graciously.

“Yeah,” Brobeck said breathlessly. Cain’s hand shifted up and down slowly, tracing his spine. It raised goosebumps. “We’re ready.”

Frida smiled, turning to Cain. “Cain, would you do the honor of giving this man your colors, in sickness and in health, for the rest of—”

“Of course,” Cain cut her off, an entranced sort of look on his face.

Frida chuckled and looked, then, to Brobeck. “And would you, Brobeck, do the honor of—”

“Absolutely,” Brobeck answered, confident and proud to say it.

Frida nodded, satisfied, and turned to look over Cain’s shoulder. The kids scurried forward once more to stand on either side of her, and Cora looked up to Beck with big, shining eyes. Axel was barely standing still enough to keep the rings from falling off their pillow. Frida took both the rings and passed them to either man. Brobeck separated himself from the man who was seconds away from marrying him, a red metallic ring in his right hand.

Cain smiled imploringly and Beck huffed, lifting his prosthetic hand. Cain took it, bringing it up to lay a gentle kiss on Beck’s knuckles—which, in turn, drew a small gasp from Brobeck’s lips—and slid his own cobalt blue ring onto Beck’s ring finger. With much less elegance than Cain, Brobeck took the man’s left hand, trembling all the while, and slid the red ring onto Cain’s ring finger. He looked over to Frida—the only maternal figure he’d ever known—and she gave him a reassuring smile.

He turned back around and Cain dove in for the kiss, hungry for something he’d never wanted. Brobeck had to admit—even as his leg gave and his _husband_ was the only thing holding him up right now; even as their kids, screaming in brilliant happiness, threw fragile orbs of red and blue dye that splattered and stained them both; even as the crowd was laughing and cheering and screaming excitedly—he never really thought he’d needed this but, now that he had it, he realized just how starving for it he’d been.

Brobeck tightened his grip around Cain’s shoulders, took a breath, and kissed his husband.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is @kkid-nothingg if you'd like to see a prompt of your own featured in this series! Constructive criticism is welcomes and so are kudos. Thank you!


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